Anabelle Anderson doesn't just want revenge. She wants an entire revolution.
* * *
When 17-year-old Ana returns to her hometown for senior year, she vows to crush the powerful and dangerous clique that exiled her. Armed with a disguise and a step...
Stepping backstage during a pageant is like stepping through the tall iron gates of Hell.
Although I'm pretty sure that demons would be slightly more hospitable.
Within thirty seconds of entering the cramped dressing room during the interval of Kirsty's Miss Teen competition, I'd been screamed at by a stage mother, Kat had almost taken a steaming hot curling wand to the face, and Kat, Sienna, Chontelle and I had each breathed in enough cheap hair spray to take us to Wonderland.
The contestants had seemed so sweet and poised up on stage, parading around in their expensive evening gowns and Jimmy Choos. Behind the curtain, though, all bets were off. They were vicious lions surveying the savanna for their next meal.
And openly considering each other.
It didn't take long to locate Kirsty amongst the tulle and sequins. She was bowed over her vanity mirror in the back corner of the room, her indigo robe hanging limply from her sides as she took deep, unsteady breaths.
"Kirsty!" Kat called.
But Kirsty didn't return her excited greeting.
She looked up, her eyes catching us in the mirror, and released a low, angry growl. "Fucking finally."
She spun on her heel to prowl towards us, grabbing a wide-eyed Kat by the wrist.
"Do you have it or not?"
Kat swallowed. Her doe eyes dimmed, falling on each of us before meekly meeting Kirsty's penetrating stare. Hesitantly, she nodded.
Without wasting another second, Kirsty had pulled Kat into the privacy of the bathroom.
"Nice to see you, too," Chontelle muttered under her breath.
I turned to her and Sienna with a frown. "What was that about?"
The latter rolled her eyes, fixing her hair in Kirsty's mirror. "I have a feeling that we don't want to know..."
"I need some extra ones," Kirsty snapped, her voice muffled but clear enough to be understood.
"Babe, you've already had a lot—"
"I need more!"
"Fifteen minute warning, ladies," an older woman with a clipboard called out, shimmying past us to knock on the restroom door. "Other girls need to use the ladies', too, sweetheart."
"I'll be right out," Kirsty cried, the sweetness in her tone a startling contrast to the strain she'd greeted us with.
"Someone tore my dress!" A panicked contestant screeched over the ruckus.
Sienna stifled a laugh. "Three guesses who."
I angled my face towards hers, searching her blue eyes for any truth to her words.
